


The Small Things

by DemonPox



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Family Feels, Family Loss, Fluff, Gay Male Character, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other, Sad with a Happy Ending, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27192524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonPox/pseuds/DemonPox
Summary: Just Alastair, Carstairs siblings and Thomastair drabbles and fics.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs & Cordelia Carstairs, Alastair Carstairs & Sona Carstairs, Alastair Carstairs & Thomas Lightwood, Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood, James Herondale/Thomas Lightwood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 162





	1. "You know I can't cook myself without burning down the house" (Carstairs siblings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair and Cordelia discuss the matters happening at home, and it's Cordelia's time to distract her sibling. Takes presumably during Chain of Iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, Persian readers. You'll see why.  
> Based partially on the headcanon Cordelia isn't able to cook, and Alastair is insufferably good at it. Sorry, Thomastair, you must wait. The Carstairs siblings supremacy called me.  
> Also, I have no idea about cooking at the start of the 20th century. I worked with what I have.

**All characters belong to Casandra Clare.**

* * *

Cordelia stepped back into the parlor of her townhouse, holding a tray in her hands.

"Here," she began, resting it on the dark-wooded table. She lifted the teapot to pour the drink as she looked up calmly at her brother. "So, whatever is it going on?"

Alastair knotted his brows together, seemingly bewildered. "You tell me," he said. "Weren't you the one who suggested I'd come by?"

She added a slice of lemon to Alastair's tea and a bit of milk to hers. The set was made of porcelain, with delicate traces of flowers. It was a gift she got from her mother, Sona, for the wedding - the one which passed on to her from her own mother. She stirred the liquid with a teaspoon, watching as it mixed and turned back to a solid color. 

She kept her cool. "Didn't you wish to come?" 

He shrugged dismissingly. "Isn't it the new base for you and your little friends? I imagined they would be here."

"They went to their hideout at the Devil's Tavern," she explained. _So that's what it is._ He wanted to avoid an inept meeting with the Merry Thieves. Even if they did try to converse, say they wouldn't snub him as usual, she held no hope it would be competent and amiable. She planned his arrival meticulously. James and the rest of the Merry thieves had patrol from the afternoon to evening. It came out perfectly - they'd stay at the Devil until patrol, giving her as much time as essential to speak with her brother.

Alastair's expressive eyebrows climbed upwards. "And your husband left you alone when a serial killer is running loose?"

The word 'husband' made her cheeks heat up and her heart double in pain. _Husband. But not a real one, not as you think, brother_. "I told James I would have company today and had insisted of him to go and be with our friends. So as you see, he didn't leave me alone." She took a sip from her tea.

She told James she wished to invite her family for the day. She had never said she would invite all of them. And she never knew whether Alastair would bring himself or not. She has convinced him no accusations of bad manners will be held against him if he goes off with his friends. 

"Well-"

"Alastair, please," she huffed, and Alastair scowled and took his teacup in hand, the saucer in another. "James was far more than kind to me. And no attack occurred in Shadowhunters' houses."

"You can never know," he argued.

"Alastair," she warned.

He rolled his eyes. "As you will. Herondale-"

"He has a name," Cordelia protested, starting to get irritated. "Besides, he is your brother by marriage. If nothing else, it worth a first name basis, is it not?"

Alastair scrunched his nose at the comment, clearly not softened by her effort. He opened his mouth before hesitating and shutting it. Her brother turned to stare at her silently for a few seconds before asking, "Is James Herondale taking good care of you?"

She held his gaze, but the question startled her. She looked over at him, examining him closely. Over the past month since their father's return, she noticed slight changes in his behavior. The tension in his shoulders, the cautious looks around. He seemed more aware and detached from everything around him at the same time. She was worried, but was never able to voice those fears. 

And James. James was pure and loyal, always acting like a faithful husband around others. "He does," she said, with as much meaning as she could put into those words. Alastair slowly nodded. 

She felt sick to think about it. The lies and half-truths in which she surrounded herself threatened to drown her. Those stolen moments when she was with James, free to love him but also forbidden from his own love at the same time. Was it worth it? Are the moments alone with him now would worth the constant pain she'd carry with herself once the marriage is called off?

This was not a question she got to puzzle over longly. Her brother's stern look was directed at her. 

"Yes," she said convincingly. "He is everything I could have imagined for myself." _Because he is the only thing I longed for myself._

At the outset, Alastair seemed to tranquil. He nodded imperceptibly. Once. Twice. Then something behind his eyes changed, and Cordelia had felt dread washing over her. Often he seemed to know more than he has let to see. He anticipated the world in his way, revealing secrets and schemes. Was he unsatisfied with her answer? Maybe he speculated what she brought him for. She forced herself to return his gaze.

"Cordelia," he started. "I am glad. For the invitation, that is. But really all you wished to do is have a little tea party with me?"

It felt like an unsaid conviction. She took a breath. Of course, he wouldn't make it easy on her. she stirred her tea, not bringing her older brother a look. "Someone once told me tea parties are a great excuse for clandestine agenda." 

He raised a brow. She noted the way his posture became more rigid. "And I assume this time is not an oddity."

"No," she conceded. "Not in this case."

Alastair kept silent for a long moment, yet she could feel the nerves building up in him. A few things came to mind when she thought of talking with Alastair, and none of them would be to set a trap for him in the form of a pleasant tea party so that they could talk properly. He had examined her face, kept his own visage clear of emotions.

"I actually wanted to talk about you," she said cautiously.

"Me," he repeated, quirking an eyebrow. Truly, how could he project every emotion in the human range with a single flick of his eyebrow? She envied that when she was young. Now only exasperation left.

"Yes," she continued. "And Maman. And Papa."

Alastair has robustly avoided conferring on those subjects. He dismissed it whenever she tried to start a conversation, carefully guiding them to safer ground. She has rarely come against her brother's wishes - directly, at least - but she refused to be left out. She refused to let him push her away, even if it is for her own well-being.

Alastair ducked his head and stared at his cup of tea for a long moment. When he finally cast a glance at her, his eyes were opaque. "What do you want?" 

Cordelia felt relieved he hadn't turned away yet. If he left while grunting she wouldn't have been surprised, but she wished he'd listen to what she had to say first off. "I know you don't tell me everything," she began warily. " So do our parents. But please, Alastair, share it with me. I want to understand. I want to help. Mother is ill, and so is Father. Mother's pregnancy is at high risk. Father is a hurricane of terrible, totaled drunken mistakes. And you are stuck in the middle of it all. As your sister and a Carstairs from birth, I demand to not kept being led on by my family. Tell me what is going on."

Her brother hadn't replied. She was far from done talking. "You've kept this burden alone for so long, so hard," she stated and gave up on going in circles. "Ever since we were children you have done all in your power to shield me from this truth, to make me happy in hidden ways I could never spot. But now that I know, Alastair, it changes things. But you no longer have to, to be - to push me away like you always did. Let me help. Talk to me. Please."

His mouth twitched downward, and after a moment of consideration, he shook his head. He was staring blindly at his hands. "Nothing is happening, Cordelia."

The lie stung. "I know things are different now since Father was back to London," she insisted. "I know it wasn't easy on you, Alastair. And I want to listen if you will speak."

Hesitation passed on her brother's face, the slightest of signs he was giving in. In a daring move, she seized both his hands with her own and made him turn to look at her. "Alastair dadash," she pleaded. "It bothers you. You can do so much to fool me. I can take it, Brother. I can take the truth."

"You've never seen Father drunk, Cordelia," he countered, outraging. "Do you know what it is to be afraid that your father will hurt himself as a result of his drunkenness? That he would drink himself to death? That he would hurt other people, that he would say words that would only burn deeper wounds? You do not know what it is to come home down with a drunkard on your toes or passed out and act it's normal. To feel as if it's normal for you to smuggle your drunkard of a dad each and every night. That others expect you to act like it never happened like it was small trouble worth no mention? You can't understand that. I do not want you to understand that."

"Azizam," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He let out an unamused chuckle. "Sure you do, Layla."

She furrowed further. "This is why you don't wish me around the house? Because I might encounter our father while he is afflicted by his illness?" 

Her brother suddenly was very invested in the wall behind Cordelia. Their parlor was plain and modest. The wallpaper was the color red. The color of victory, James told her.

Their tea was long forgotten. He was quiet so long, Cordelia was sure it's afternoon already. But when she looked at the clock, only a minute has passed. "You think you can help him, don't you?"

The question startled Cordelia. She stared at him, but his hardened look revealed nothing. "Of course, Alastair. We ought to help him get better."

"He won't get better if he doesn't _wish_ to heal." Alastair sneered, his eyes cool. "It seems to betoken Father has no intention to drop the bottle. Why are you pressing on it? "

She noted he evaded her question. "I have faith in father. We need to show him we- "

"To show him what? That his family is waiting in open arms, ready to forget all he's done in the past? That plan won't work."

"But it must. We are his family!"

"To beh man goosh nemidi!" Alastair almost rose from the armchair; his hands were tight fists. He tried to calm down, but he was shaking. "I was daft to believe that if you knew it would make him truly change. He wasn't ready to try for Mother. Or for me, His only son, who had to grow up with all the scarred parts of his father. With the ugly face of a brandy bottle. I could never look up to Father. I can't fathom a way to do it now. Even for you, and the new baby - he deteriorated back to how he used to be. He doesn't care enough to do it."

"Alastair," she was on the verge of tears. What could they do, when it was no one's fault for the situation? When they could only collect the scraps? "Father did try; of course he cares for us! Of course- of course he cares for you. He still fights with this illness, but he tries to be better for us."

Alastair squizzed his eyes shut. "I have no faith left in our father anymore, Cordelia. I am not as hopeful as you."

Her brother believed it to be a battle lost in advance. Her heart constricted. She mulled over her next words as she eyed him attentively. "You may have lost faith, but you still care. You don't believe he would change, but I can see you desire him to. This is hope, Alastair. This shred of hope in you hasn't died yet. When you wished the treatment would succeed. When you took care of him; when you gave him another chance, and then another."

"And what this foolish, foolish part of me achieved?" The dark-haired man fumed. He spitted the words. "I am done with giving more chances. He didn't care enough about his family to get the treatment until he was on the very edged of being convicted for murder. He didn't care enough to join his pregnant wife's side the moment he was out. He wasn't there when we needed him, and it was moronic of me to think otherwise."

There was an irrevocable certitude to his words. "we can-"

"baseh digeh." he ordered. His eyes were firm and hard, not open or hurt as she expected them to be.

"This is not a helpless situation," Cordelia pressed, "People change. If we only show Father we accept him, despite the past-"

"No," he interjected. his anger only seemed to escalate. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "What is it you want, Layla? To make me give him another chance? I gave him a myriad of chances. You want me to love him? How can you ask me to love the man I had to clean up after all the time, to hide his filthy secret? That done the opposite of making me respect him. Surely, it's difficult to respect the person you saw puking on your shoes and wasn't able to be on his own feet most of the time."

The heat in his words drifted away until only misery left. Cordelia found it hard to breathe. "Only if I knew before," she whispered sadly. "If I knew, so many things could've been better..."

"Don't," Her brother hesitated before he clasped a hand on her shoulder. The touch lingered, warm and reassuring. She savored it. "You mustn't fall to this path of thinking. It will do no good."

She drew a slow breath. "I could have helped convince father getting treatment earlier. Or prevent you from shutting me down so often."

She fumbled with the fabric of her linen dress. His hand dropped to his side. "We cannot change the past," he said wisely. "We can only look forward."

"One thing to bear in mind," Cordelia conveyed in a soothing tone, resigning herself, "is that we are here for you, aziz-e-delam. I want you to be happy."

His eyes softened."I know," he cracked out. They shared a long look.

Cordelia thought of the cities they've been to during their lives. Of the splints of watercolors of foreign, mysterious views. Of the various smells and languages, tales and dreams, blended into their childhood like a mosaic mural. Never have they had a simple connection with each other, but here and now it was lucid. Words couldn't express the understanding they had. The willingness to the happiness that was not quite at reach.

"One of the things I regret," She turned her head as he confessed. "Is that for so long I never let you in."

"We haven't done it in a long time, have we?" she wondered. "Just sitting and talking about how we feel."

"Yes. I think we found each other too irritating to be around more than five minutes."

"You were mostly irritating," Cordelia defended. "I was just there."

He said 'sure' in a way that made it clear he doubted the accuracy of the sentence. Cordelia thought it certainly was true.

An idea formed in her mind. "Shall you cook with me?"

Alastair cut his gaze back to ger, seemingly bewildered.

"You know I can't cook myself without burning down the house," He considered her thoughtfully, yet uncertain, clearly baffled by the abrupt change of subject. With great power, she rose to her feet and glanced at him. "Please," she added. "I want to make something good for today. A surprise."

"For what occasion?" her brother asked. She tried to swiftly come with a proper answer.

"It's this very day James gave me the nickname Daisy," she lied. He leveled her with a dubious look.

"I want to make Qottab," she tempted. Risa hasn't baked the sugared Persian almond pastry in a long while. "Unless you have other plans for luncheon time, of course." 

Alastair didn't respond but quietly lifted himself up. That was enough of an answer.

****

Like the dance of battle, the rhythm of cooking was cooling them down. Some of the strain left Alastair's shoulder, his mind fixated on separating the egg yolks and the egg white. Cordelia worked to measure the right amounts of the dry ingredients for the dough. She hadn't mention Elias again, or her friends. It was just them, chatting lightly on anything and nothing.

They prepared all needed to make the tasty treat, mixing the ingredients. They immersed themselves into a light and superficial conversation, occasionally debating once and there. They sank into a bicker surrounding books ("Writers can tell simple truths in a fame glory," Cordelia claimed. "Between the words lies the truth that a few can reach." "The narrator controls it all, how everything seems to the reader," Alastair objected. "The book doesn't lie. The author might.") when they finished preparing the dough and set it aside. 

"The filling, now," she said blithely, turning to mince the almonds.

Both Alastair and Cordelia, being isolated and restless children, used to went on any adventures they could. They tried new things to prevent themself getting bored. Once, they decided to join Risa in her preparations for breakfast. Although memories of this were vague, she recalled the fresh smell of Persian bread, the spices, the feeling of pride for Risa's approving air when she got the measures correctly, Risa guiding the siblings how to take the food off the fire.

Alastair got scolded by Elias at that time. _Son of the lord of the house shouldn't do a servent job_ , He said.

Despite the clear risk of defying their parents, he sneaked up and helped Risa in the kitchen more than once after. He stopped when he got older, but she remembered how well he was in the kitchen. Sona, pouring her love for her culture into her children, taught them some traditional recipes of their culture.

Her mother tried to teach her to cook. After uncourteously hundreds of times of burned food, crying, and sorrowing she finally succumbed, and Cordelia was left to her own devices. A lady might as well know to cook, but she was limited to few recipes and turning on the kettle for tea.

She hummed a melody to herself and glanced at Alastair who went to clean the mess left when she insisted on kneading the dough. 

"I thought of it," he said, pondering. "And I find it would be a great source of amusement to me and great annoyance to your husband if I'd call him brother. So thank you, Layla, for this marvelous idea."

"Do you have to be so irking?" Complained Cordelia. Alastair shrugged.

"Of course," he retorted. "I have a reputation to maintain."

Cordelia shook her head in mock exasperation. "Of inappropriate performances and grumpy, irritating remarks?"

"Exactly." 

Cordelia could only shake her head again.

****

Once done with the filling, they engaged in a light conversation with some baked goods. This kept on, distracting each other from troubles and talking like they haven't had in what felt like an eternity. Alastair looked at the Pendulum clock hanging in the kitchen and told her it's time to make the crescents. It was her favorite part, putting the almond filling onto the center and creating a form of half-circle shape, sealing the inside by pressing down the edges and rolling them over.

She started to roll out the dough as thin as she could. "I disagree," she said, "Hugging you in public is not so shameful. And I did it only once." Cordelia turned to put it aside when she heard her brother mumble, "What's a more humiliating activity than hugging your sister in the open?"

She waved warningly at him with a rolling pin. "I heard that!"

"That's a glaring fact of life."

"I wasn't aware, then," she challenged, taking a bit of flour and tossing it on him. He regarded it with an irked noise.

While she let Alastair create the circles for the shapes of the pastries, she took the grined almonds and deliberately placed a bit on the center of each circle. Her brother started making the crescent shape and she soon joined him.

"We should do it more often," Cordelia suggested as she pressed her hand on the brim of the undone cookie and then folded, repeating the action and creating decoration on the sealing.

Alastair rolled his eyes. "And risk more flour thrown at me? I afraid you ask for too much."

"You can always behave nice," she said. "May I recommend you to perk up your manners?"

"Depends," he said. "Are you going to keep thinking about James in the same vein that Matthew Fairchild talks about his waistcoats?"

"That's very not true!" She objected. She could feel warmth flooding her cheeks. "I'm not- I'm not doing it!"

"Keep lying to yourself, then," Alastair calmly replied. Cordelia barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"I do not think only about James."

"Sure." he mocked in a high-pitched voice that was supposed to resemble Cordelia's. "James smiled at me! James breathed in my direction! James is that and James is there. Angel, when will it come to end? I hoped you would do something other than daydreaming of Herondale once you two got married."

She only glared at him in response. She drifted off to thinking about James just several times, and all Alastair's fault. _Was it too late to knock Alastair off with Cortana?_ she contemplated. "I do not do that! I barely mentioned him!"

"It's written all over your face, You don't have to _say_ anything." She gave him an annoyed huff, cheeks burning, and went to prepare the pot for the cooking.

As Alastair kept on filling the dough with almonds, Cordelia began to cook. She watched as the pastries got a golden-brown and took them out, intentionally away from Alastair's reach so he wouldn't be able to take any.

He got up, and she gave him a suspicious eye, but he loyally took the pastries and deeper them in a bowl with sugar they prepared earlier without biting at them. She mentioned they are not for him, just in case, and gave hin the most serious tone she could afford. 

Yet, when she turned around to take out another Qottab from the oil, she saw him biting one. "I caught you red-handed," she accused, repressing a teasing smile. He rolled his eyes, looking imperturbable.

"I made those. I deserve to get my part." And then, he shamelessly took another one. Cordelia couldn't help her smile this time. 

The smell of fresh, fragrant bread came up in the nose, spreading in the room. She mentioned the unflattering ornamental hat of Ms. HighCastle when Alastair peered at the now brown crescents."We should get it out now."

She smiled and turned to take the last bunch of treats out of the cooking pot, even as she saw Alastair extending his hand to steal another pastry.

This still wasn't easy. Their relationship was still rough around the edges. But it was fine, it was them, and they were making a progress. Their family could be mended. they were closer, another invisible wall of secrets fallen down between them. For now, they both could pretend the matters at home weren't so pained, so crushing

She would make it work, She won't let it fall apart, now that she got her brother back. And woe betides anyone who stands in her path.

****

baseh digeh - that's enough.

to beh man goosh nemidi - you are not listening to me

aziz-e-delam - my sweetheart

Dadash - informal way to say 'brother'


	2. Kiss the boy in the music room (Thomastair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas never intended ending up in the music room in the institute, pressing against the smaller figure - whose is Alastair Carstairs - into a wall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something small I thought about when I was sick. It became much, much longer. Please review!  
> (Am I aware of a hundred grammar mistakes? Yes, I do. Do I care about it? Not the slightest.)  
> P.S. I do not know how to write scenes. I apologize.

Thomas never intended ending up in the music room in the institute, pressing against the smaller figure - whose is Alastair Carstairs - into a wall. 

So far, his day went surprisingly peaceful. No scandalous events, nothing significant to attends, not even explosives experiments caused by his cousin, Christopher (His eyebrows are still on his face, Thomas does regard it as an achievement). He came to pay a visit to Lucie, who demanded he'll pass by to practice Farsi since her mother was busy. Thomas rather enjoyed those learning conferences and was glad to help Lucie with her training. He was about to meet James and head to the Devil's tavern later, anyhow.

They exchanged short sentences, ordinary words, some difficult-to-pronounce terms, and concepts that became familiar over time. An hour passed by, then two. Lucie closed the book in a dramatic "Thump" and patted the cover, as it were to praise the book for the hard work.

Thomas lazily looked at her. "Sufficient practice for today?" He asked.

"Not at all," Her expression turn determined. She pushed a loose strand of brown hair off of her eyes. "I want to be able to speak Farsi fluently, as for Daisy deserves it. We shall continue." 

"Or," Thomas suggested, "We shall see if Bridget left any food from breakfast." He didn't devour much more than a small piece of lemon tart at home. He believed the institute to has plenty of food in case he wished to ingest something. He got an approving growl from Lucie's stomach.

Lucie cheered. "I do am hungry, Tom. Good idea."

She got up from the armchair she sat on and looked out the window of the living room. She swept her skirt, evergreen shade, a flimsy shawl over it in rose. "My, my. It's already so late!" She gasped, "Bridget might be cooking luncheon by now. What do you say, Thomas? Are you aboard for adventure to get our stomachs filled?" 

"Gladly," Thomas moved his legs from their resting place on the arm of the sofa and rose to his feet. He stretched before following Lucie. "What are we raiding?"

"Whatever us, the mighty heroes, can find," Lucie answered before she wrinkled her nose. "Unless Bridget made eggs."

Thomas nodded. Bridget was rather talented in the kitchen, but one better stays away from the terrible eggs she made.

He looked around as they walked toward the grand dining room. No soul has been seen or heard from across the place. Revision - no other than the voice of Bridget, who sang a horrid, sorrowful Irish lullaby.

"Is there somebody here than we and Bridget?" He asked Lucie, who nodded her head. "Where are they?"

Lucie snorted. "My parents- must they be in the library. Daisey should come - she said her brother might accompany her as well. If I am to be correct, they should arrive soon."

Thomas did not have time to digest what she said as if on cue, the two young Shadowhnters heard the pounding of horses on the ground, a carriage making its way to the ground of the institute. A smile spread on Lucie's face, bright and shiny. Her eyes gleamed as she turned to Thomas. She applauded. "It must be daisy! I have to greet her, I cannot leave my Parbatai waiting!"

Thomas assented. What she said before dawned upon him. Cordelia and her brother, Alastair Carstairs, have arrived.

"Ah," he whispered.

Lucie looked puzzled. "Something happened?"

Thomas did forgive Alistair. He never hated him, but he felt betrayed and hurt because of his past actions. Only months later could Thomas finally face him. Long story short, they were on friendly terms, he believed, despite both walked on eggshells with each other. He knew it was the same with his friends - the angel knows they each have their own relationship with Alastair and their own demons to kill.

It did not help something else bugged him. That fluttering feeling he felt in his stomach when he saw Alastair, the chill in his back when their eyes met.

He thought about asking someone - Anna or Matthew, perhaps. But despite things were calmer now between the Merry Thieves and Alastair Carstairs, it doesn't mean it was all balls and gin. They might draw an Iratze, but a scar has remained.

Matthew wouldn't want to hear much more about Alastair than he obliged to. They didn't go on with 'I hate you with my soul and purpose' anymore, which Thomas was glad for. instead of being enemies to death, they become foes-acquaintances. None of them owed the other a friendship, yet Thomas believed they've been of some fragile sort of comradeship between them, and he had to admit it was a great deal of a process.

The thought of bothering Anna about what bugging Thomas made him shiver. They did encounter a conversation about the Carstairs siblings once, and she looked at him as if she knows more than he does about his thoughts and sentiments. Christopher, his beloved cousin - he was a genius, in a way many others ignored. In a lab, there is nothing his imagination, curiosity and determination couldn't achieve. Despite his brilliance with whatever conducting machinery and experiments, he couldn't see his oblivious cousin helping him to sort his thoughts.

James was oblivious as well, and Cordelia - now both of them happily married, truly loving - seemed to eye him peculiarly when he talked about her brother. Thomas didn't want to admit it, but the reason he had never shared his thunderstorm of thoughts, as baffling as it was, was because he was afraid the others won't understand. No bad blood would cross them, but he wasn't sure he wanted any of them to analyze his thoughts about the Carstairs man. It felt as if he should seek his way out of the labyrinth of his feelings on his own. Still, maybe his mother, he mused. Sophie Lightwood was indeed a great listener and a good adviser. She might help Thomas sort his thoughts out-

He didn't perceive Lucie had been looking at him in distraught. "Thomas?"

He shook his head and flashed at Lucie. "Yes, yes. We both can come and greet them."

Lucie smiled brightly at him, even though her eyes reflected a little concern. Another growl of her stomach made her cheeks turn rosy and to whip away the thoughts running through his brain. "Oh, what about you would announce Bridget about our guests and ask her to prepare something to eat, and we can sit in the dining-room and all enjoy the meal?"

Thomas chuckled but nodded in agreement. "Sure, Luce."

Lucie turned around and started to walk to another corridor, on her way to welcome the Carstairs siblings. Thomas still stared at her walking figure as she twisted a little to shout, "Do not steal all the food for yourself, you sly giant!"

Thomas rolled his eyes fondly and finally turned his gaze away from her. He started to walk once again to the dining room, hearing Bridget's voice louder. The corridors were familiar, cozy and domestic, lit in daylight and the gleam of witchlights. He liked the way Aunt Tessa redecorated the institute - He walked quietly and entered the dining room, where he found Bridget preparing the dining table for the residents of the institute.

After some convincing words and warm smiles, Bridget went to see what she could gather for the arriving company. He was partially sure that Lucie sent him because Bridget had a soft spot for his mother, Sophie. It was indeed her job to cook for the inhabitants of London institute, but Lucie claimed Bridget gave the best food to the Lightwoods because she loves Sophie, her previous fellow servant. Bridget kept on her singing while in the kitchen, and also when she came back from the door with a plate of scones and biscuits. Drinks were already on the table, and Thomas took a seat and waited for Lucie, Cordelia, and Alastair to appear.

Two figures walk through the door - and with a sting of disappointment, he pointed out internally Alastair was not one of them. 

Cordelia and Lucie's skirts swung and rustled around their legs as they stepped into the broad dining room. Cordelia's floor-length attire was made of maroon fabric, combined with white lace and small gems. It suited her figure and curves neatly, demurely reveals a little more collar skin than usual.

"Thomas," Cordelia greeted with a sweet smile, and Thomas returned his own kind grin. "What a joyful day it is today, isn't it?"

Thomas tilted his head and nodded. The two girls walked to Thomas, Lucie to his right, and Cordelia to his left, arranging their skirts as they both sat down. "It is a beautiful day. Perfect for a peaceful walk. Have you had a good morning?"

Cordelia's smile grew, and she flushed slightly. With some amusement, Thomas recalled she spent the morning in her house, with James. It was quite a relief when the two finally confessed their love for each other, and he was content for his friends to find their significant other. Moreover, he was happy all the drama about the sham marriage was behind them.

"Yes," Cordelia said, "I had a great morning. How was yours?" She offered the question to both Lucie and Thomas. Lucie, ever the excited girl she is, started telling her about their latest Farsi meeting, in addition to details about new chapters of her book - _The Beautiful Cordelia_.

As much as he loved listening to Lucie and her jabberings, he couldn't help but wonder where was Alastair. Didn't Lucie say he would come with Cordelia? Maybe she was wrong. After a few eaten scones and Lucie telling them animatedly about the beautiful Cordelia and her last adventure, Lucie glanced at him. "Is everything all right, Tom?"

"Yes," He hurried to say, then lowered his half-eaten biscuit down on his plate. He cleaned his throat and cursed himself for sounding so out of balance. "I just, I do wonder, Cordelia, Lucie said your brother will come too. I suppose she was wrong?"

Cordelia's dark eyebrows frowned. "No. In fact, he did come with me, but as soon as we encountered Lucie he vanished off into the institute. I do not know where he's gone."

"Ah," Thomas said, for lack of a better response. Then he rose from his chair. "well, I might as well find him, and ask whether he'd like to join us."

What was he doing? he was a wreck around Alastair, and he didn't want to make a fool of himself. The thought of seeing the older Shadowhunter distressed him and thrilled him all at the same time. Still, the words flee from his mouth, untamed, like the last of sunset rays over the horizon. 

Cordelia gave him a surprised but pleased nod. "That's a great suggestion, Thomas. Thank you."

Thomas nodded absentmindedly, quickly back in the familiar maze of halls and corridors. Where would he go if he were Alastair? He went to check the attic, where they would train - Alastair was not there. He checked the many drawing rooms he crossed by, as well as the lounge and the library, but he could not find Alastair.

He felt a bit disenchanted as he strikingly believed the older man will find his hideout in the library, around the abundance of books and stories. Thomas himself loved the colossal library of the London Institute, where one able to lose oneself for hours. The love to read was something he shared with his friends, and a good book was everlastingly a loyal friend.

He walked back to the dining room, sticking to his theory Alastair decided to leave, for lack of better leisure activities. His conspiracy was thwarted, however, when he noticed a door that was opened to a crack. He made sure to close all the doors he checked, so he assumed someone was in there. 

Quietly, he took his steps toward the door peeking through the crack.

The music room was illuminated by the noon daylight from outside, but it shone in a dim and golden light reminiscent of evening time, instilling a warm and tranquil feeling. Despite not being used very often, the room was neat and ordered, only a few particles of dust flew in the air, dotting the rich rays of light source that decorated the room. It held quite a few instruments - including a violin carefully placed under a glass cover, reserved only for its owner to use.

He spotted a winged piano. And the slim figure near it.

Alastair Carstairs was so still, so steadfast that he seemed part of a picture - a static object, a fraction of a flawless image.

The light enveloped him, stroking his hair and turning its dark color into gold, luminescing his clothes with a gentle and soft light, casting a golden path on his skin — on his cheekbones, on his neck, on his long, graceful hands that hovered over the piano keys, frozen in place above them. It reminded him of the way a man hangs over an abyss - imprisoned between falling and desperate grip, not knowing what to do, how to act.

It was a perfect image Thomas did not want to hinder. A masterpiece he wished to freeze in time, for it to be documented and forever kept over the fireplace in his room. He could only wonder how one person can make him feel so enchanted. The flutter in his stomach felt like a butterfly was spreading its wings for the first time, exploring the world from a new angle as it strikes its wings. 

He didn't apprehend he launched the door slightly more open. It made no noise - thankfully - as he pushed himself through the small crack. The full view of the music room unfolded before him. Alastair was yet to stare down at the piano thoughtfully, unaware of the big figure observing his back.

It was when Thomas made another step - a loud, clumsy one he regretted right away - to make the acknowledgment Alastair was not the only one in the room. Alastair froze in his place and Thomas swallowed thickly.

The silence cloaked the room. Then, in a matter of mere seconds, Alastair darted around like demon-possessed, one of his folding spears in hand and directed at the intruder. Thomas himself startled and raised his arms. To surrender or to calm down the young Carstairs, the boy did not know.

His eyes fell on Thomas. Both stared at each other. Alastair was agitated to look at Thomas Lightwood, while Thomas was astonished by Alastair's looks.

In a trickle of amusement, Thomas noted the maroon topcoat of Alastair, matching his sister's dress. It was forgotten expeditiously, however. His eyes were reddish, and black shadows were below his eyes. His hair was as if he ran his fingers through it multiple times. Thomas conjectured whatever Alastair did last time, sleeping was not much of it. 

_Why does he seem such unsettled?_ He wondered. _Why does he look so very sad?_

Alastair cleared his throat and Thomas snapped out of his thoughts. He felt embarrassed when he realized he was fundamentally staring at Alastair.

"Do you always peep at guests and lurk in the dark, Lightwood?"

Alastair's voice was poisonous and hazily, making Thomas flinch. Alastair was in a very bad mood. Despite his scattered thoughts, he shrugged - it wasn't uncommon of Alastair to snipe, after all - and said in an equal voice, "I did not mean to intrude, I was seeking for you."

It stopped Alastair from spitting the next jab buzzing on the tip of his tongue. "Me?" Alastair reverberated. His eyes narrowed. "Why would you?"

"Your sister requests you to join her forthwith," Explained Thomas. He made a few more steps toward the peevish man. He did his best not to look away from the blood-washed eyes of Alastair. "She and Lucie having a brunch, and she suggested you might like to join-" 

"Tell Layla I am sated." Interrupted the other man. He fended off Thomas's gaze, scowling. "Come along, tell her I headed home. She does not need to worry."

Thomas watched as Alastair straightened more, tilting up his face to a familiar arrogant and powerful facade. He began to walk toward the doorway, trying to look indifferent. Thomas wondered if Alastair was aware of the tremor of his scarred hands. Was he not-ever-so-subtly ignoring it?

Alastair started. He went to leave the room, and Thomas asked, "Why won't you join the girls in the dining room?"

Alastair reached the doorknock, hand lifted to the handle. "I cannot perceive how it is any of your business. Farewell, Thomas."

He doesn't want Cordelia to see him so disheveled, most obviously. It struct Thomas when the realization lent on him like a heavy boot.

Thomas felt a sting of compassion toward the dark-haired man. Clearly, no one would favor being caught in such distress. Alastair, the all-aloof grown man, would have seen it as a direct offense from the Angel that one of the Merry Thieves have found him. But it was Thomas, and the latter hoped it's enough to slightly ease the other man. 

Alastair had a great deadpan expression over his face. He wore a mask to cover his sentiments, to hide them from unwanted folks. Everything in his veil made of opaqueness and chill was flawless, except Alastair's eyes and nose were still rimmed with red, and his lips were a little all too fastened together. He briefly wondered whether Alastair ever talked about his feelings with someone. Cordelia or his mother, maybe. It was difficult for Thomas to believe Alastair leaned on on many people to freely show his scars. Furthermore, He was quite sure _he_ wasn't one of them.

Although the clear impression Alastair wanted to be alone, Thomas believed he craved for someone to hold onto, to tell him everything is all right when the sky isn't clear. Everyone deserves to have such a person in their lives. Including Alastair. Thomas has seen it happens many times. He saw it happen repeatedly with others, knew how unsteady can one feel as a result of bottling one's feelings. How it can take you bit by bit because you feel there is no safe place to be yourself. To invalidate your feelings because the community might mock you. And he could see all that happening again, to Alastair. Thomas got to a striking realization - he didn't want it to happen to Alastair. Not if he may do anything about it.

Thomas didn't want to suffer Alastair's wrath, but it was little to pay if he could do...something. Thomas can contribute a direction to turn the anger at, at the very least. Alastair, for certainty, wanted to let this matter go. He seemed eager - as much as Alastair could seem eager - to leave the room. To ignore the existence of this miserable little encounter.

Thomas had decided he didn't want to let it go just yet.

So he pursued after the man, and stood in from of him, blocking the entry. Alastair stopped at once, and his eyes inclining up to glare at Thomas's. Alastair's figure was rutilated, making it look like he was surrounded by a golden halo. 

Thomas's broad body left no way of escape, and Alastair grumbled impatiently. "Move away."

 **"** Alastair. I do not wish to meddle, I just want to make sure you're okay - "

"I'm capable to take care of myself," Alastair sneered. "Just get out of my way, Lightwood. Now is not the time for your bloody rubbish."

"Yet. Look at yourself. You are a state and I don't want you to go through and ignore it, like - like your sentiments don't matter."

Alastair's eyes glittered. "I do not need rescue, Thomas Lightwood. And you better leave me off alone." 

Thomas still looked at those dark eyes, iris only one shade brighter of the pupil. He started again. "You don't need rescue. But avoiding your sentiments will not be any better than putting on a blindfold and walking on the edge of an abyss. Walk so close to the edge that you may fall and lose yourself. You don't need rescue, you might burden the universe and not complain one bit. But shall you know, receiving help doesn't make you weak.", His thoughts flickered to Elias Carstairs. Their family moved so much in dread someone will discover Elias's illness, who refused to receive help. Thomas found out about it just like everyone else did, in the worst way possible and with shame landing on the Carstairs name.

"What do know about me?" Alastair jabbed. "You don't have a clue about the first thing to-"

His expression was severe enough to cause Alastair to still. Alastair's eyes widened as Thomas continued. "Feelings don't make you weak. You can tell someone. You can tell me." Alastair's expressive eyebrows were shot upwards. "It doesn't have to be me, we don't even have to talk," he continued hurriedly. "As long as you take some of the mass off of your shoulders. I truly just want to help, that is all. I permit you to burden me. It is your choice if to so." Thomas wanted to ask what happened, to know what disturbed the dark-colored man. Yet, he knew better than push Alastair to tell him his troubles. If anything, doing so would make the older boy withdraw into himself further.

The silence stretched like a string on a violin. Not a long quiet full of hidden words that neither side could express, but a pitchy, cruel stillness that made Thomas feel rejected. Alastair did not trust him, it was crystal clear. The tension and distress were almost palpable.

Was it too boorish to flee and pretend he did not see Alastair? He sighed. Most probably.

So nonetheless, he stayed, standing there in front of Alastair in the doorway, frozen and watching every reaction of the smaller man. For Alastair to tell him to leave or stay. For Alastair to demand him to not let out a word about what happened. For Alastair to mock him with his sharp tongue. 

Then Alastair spoke. "Close the door then, if you will." It was not a request. Thomas didn't trust himself to speak. He only has done as he was told.

He turned back to the inside of the room. Alastair placed himself once again near the piano. His glare was constricted and troubled, his hands tapping a foreign rhythm on his lap. He said nothing, and Thomas didn't want to pressure him any harder. 

A new silence prevailed in the room, now more chill and awkward than lost for words, although still tensed. Alastair seemed to not take any step to make a conversation. Would he be the one to break the wall of silence? He shushed those thoughts out of his head. He told Alastair there no need for any talking. He carefully made his way to Alastair's side. 

He had no problem with silence. He liked it, truly. The way the stillness could come and wash over him. Soundless nights in the library, reading; Walks in Hyde Park and Brocelind forest; Following the quiet orders of Christopher when he assisted him in the laboratory. He also recalled different times, in Paris, where Alastair mutely observed artworks and heard Thomas's remarks. That silence was comfortable and at ease. Right now, it was filled with unclarity.

Alastair was yet to look at Thomas. But he did look at Alastair. Now that he got the opportunity to genuinely look at Alastair in this dim light that escaped the curtains from the outside, he couldn't help but admire him. The sharp jaw, the lavish brown skin, his long lashes casting delicate shadows on his tired face, the way the sun hit the glass, and spread tentacles of light through the music room. The course that same light luminesced on the slim features of Alastair, washing them in gold.

His eyes wandered off to the dark locks of Alastair, striking with the slightest brighter color of brown in between. the soft strands which sat obediently on his head; How would it be, run a hand through the silk-like hair of Alastair?

He cut from those sudden thoughts swiftly. He stifled a breath of surprise when it came to him that Alastair turned his attention to him. Maybe he, as well, had thought Thomas does not afford great aid. He hastily offered a distraction, the first thing that came to his mind to disguise his burgeoning discomfiture.

"Do you play?"

Alastair looked dumbfounded. "What?"

"The piano," elucidated Thomas and gestured to the white and black instrument.

Alastair resigned himself quickly, and he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "You said we don't have to talk," he scoffed.

It was just Alastair's way to say 'I do'. And that was why he decided to ignore the remark. "May you play for me?" He asked softly.

Alastair's expression wavered. He hesitated, considering, before slowly - awfully slowly - moving his eyes away from Thomas to the piano.

He didn't answer but he reached his hand to the piano, fingers graze the fallboard before drifting over the keyboard. He had an odd look in his eyes. Alastair pressed one of the keys, and a very unpleasant sound escaped the piano. Both flinched slightly.

"It's rather untuned," observed Thomas eloquently. Alastair rolled his eyes and looked mildly irritated. His finger detached from the keyboard and rested tensed next to his body. Thomas went on.

"James used to play. He abandoned it a few years ago. I suppose it was the last time someone took care of the unfortunate instrument." 

Alastair derided. "Speaking of those little friends of yours, why don't you go vex them instead of myself?" 

Thomas sighed at his contempt. "I daresay you wish I was gone. But I am simply trying to offer a comforting shoulder."

Alastair, caught in his bad mood and temper, snorted inelegantly. "Why?"

Thomas was taken aback. He frowned. " I hoped I could help."

Alastair's eyes were hard. "And what makes you think I want your help?"

It was a justifiable question, and still, Thomas found himself hurt.

Alastair didn't want his help, he just said it aloud. All he has done is make a fool out of himself. He wasn't even sure Alastair considered them friends. Why would he be frank with Thomas? He wanted to crumble to dust.

"I don't appreciate being pitied." Alastair whipped, voice raging. His head was held up insolently. Thomas blinked at him in surprise. "And I certainly don't need your sorrow. So if all you want to do is to look at me woefully, just go away." 

Thomas, despite his heart racing in his chest, didn't want to let go. He knew deep at heart Alastair's barks aren't because of him. More than that - he found no actual malice in the Persian man's voice. The haunted look in Alastair's eyes, the way his shoulders were shirked, the trembling upper lip that told Thomas Alastair was in no condition all right. He was upset and lashed out at everything like a hurricane eradicates all which lays in its path. Thomas's heart stuttered in sudden pain. 

"I already told you, I want to help out," Thomas argued. He wasn't going to advance Alastair to talk, but he didn't want to leave him alone either. At the back of his mind, he noted Alastair still looked terribly handsome, and Thomas wondered why this particular thought popped in his head in the first place. He pushed it away.

The shorter man's eyes cooled, "Just so you go and tell your lads about this pitiful encounter?"

Instantaneously he said, "No. this is not my intention."

Alastair seemed to hesitate for a moment by Thomas's firmness in his voice. Thomas was sincere when he added, "Alastair, we've been through many things. Not all good. You don't have to tell me, you don't even have to trust me-" Thomas wanted him to trust him. "-but I wish you to know I'm here for you."

Alastair looked distanced, no longer looking at Thomas but at the void space between them. No shred of arrogance has left on his face, only sheer misery. "You have no clue what you stammer out about."

"As I said before," Thomas said. "I give you permission to burden me."

"No," Alastair said, to Thomas's vast jolt. "About trusting you," his eyes fixed on Thomas's. His Adam's apple wiggled as he gulped weakly. "I do trust you."

Thomas's nervousness twisted to a ball in his stomach. Alastair floundered about for a moment, before taking a deep breath. "I don't know how to do it," He said eventually. 

"How to do what?" Thomas asked gently. Alastair seemed to not appreciate his tone, so he just went silent and waited.

Alastair went back to stare at the mild distance. He ran his fingers through his tousled dark strands, and for a moment Thomas felt great envy that blinded him. "I am - I don't think you would understand."

Something in his voice made Thomas shiver. Nevertheless, he nodded. "Alright."

The short silence that came upon them was not so prickly any longer. Alastair seemed lost in his own thoughts, calmer in Thomas's company. Their eyes met once, and the scowl on his face softened. His face left no trace of his teary face - only a suffering and weary expression that seemed candid.

"You want to ask something." He observed. He didn't seem irritated by the violation of silence. "You may as well do."

Thomas tried to resign himself. It was quite inappropriate - He didn't want to probe, but the words escaped his mouth. "Have..." he hesitated before he kept on, to Alastair's quizzical look. "Have you been having nightmares?"

Alastair, to his immense surprise, just slowly nodded. Thomas felt tightness grip his throat. "I have nightmares too," he confessed, even though he wasn't sure why. He suddenly felt a sore taste in his mouth. A short, pained grimace crossed Thomas's face.

He told no one but Lucie - not even the Merry Thieves or his family - about his nightmares. It was simply easier to talk with Alastair for some sort of reason. Maybe because he was certain he would understand. It happened a lot, that words fled from his mouth before he could ever restrain them when he was near Alastair. 

Alastair's gaze was cryptic, his voice oddly rough. "You don't have to do it, Thomas."

His words held a handful of meanings. _You don't have to be here and comfort me. You don't have to be kind to me. You don't have to trouble yourself about my well-being. you don't have to burden yourself. You don't have to reveal things you don't wish to._

Thomas shook his head, exasperated. "I fancy doing so." He took a shallow breath. His nightmares about Barbara still haunted him in some of long, tiring nights - where she accused him of her death and deemed he should've done more to save her. "After my sister had died by the demon poison, I felt like I should've done more. I devoted myself to find the antidote, I'd felt like - like I have to do something." 

Alastair's eyes asked the question he knew to come. _And now?_

He didn't want to grief his late sister with Alastair. So in a cracked voice, he said, "Only afterward have I realized mourning won't make me forget her, that I ignored my own grief. I've grieved. I don't think I'll ever stop."

Hazel eyes met dark ones, and Thomas felt Alastair _understood_. Alastair mulled over his words, his lips tilting downwards. "I am not well at expressing my feelings. That's not my finer forte, one may say." His voice was tentative. Thomas didn't say a word, afraid one wrong move would scare the man away."Many things happened lately, not all good, you said? That is correct. But what good will it make to let all out after so much time of pretending?"

The kind man was quite adapted to Alastair's sullen attitude. He held a shield constructed of shadows and steel. He built a fortress, so high were its walls no one could pass through. The field of cruelty and thorns surrounding him made almost no one to try.

And then was Thomas. He knew the obscure side of him- the hidden, endlessly carrying man only a few managed to see. The day Alastair saved him, he remembered, was when the side he always fought to believe existing in the dark-haired gentleman finally shone through. It was proof for him to settle his mind, to understand. Alastair was good-hearted, despite his actions. He was just a man. Not immune to mistakes. And he's changed for the better. Thomas knew it the day the older gentleman came to the Lightwood house and confessed his evil deeds. He was ready to accept whatever they thought was right for him, the genuine sorrow of his past actions evident.

"The truth is liberating," Thomas said quietly.

The vague look crossed Alastair's face once again. "The truth," Alastair's said darkly, " is that I sometimes wonder if it will ever change. What's the point in an endless war that always stays the same?"

Was it about his father that never changed despite how many chances he was given, or their mission from childbirth, hunting down demons? Was it something else? Thomas wasn't sure, but the bitterness of Alastair's voice was all the same.

He said his next words cautiously. "We take the burden so others won't. It doesn't mean it's fair. But we are responsible to keep that so fragile beauty and preserve it."

Alastair's eyes darkened to Thomas's words. He calculated him, examing his face. Thomas couldn't read his thoughts. After what seemed like hours of gawking straight onto his soul, Alastair said hoarsely, "I don't deserve your kind words, Thomas." 

Thomas refrained rolling his eyes. His voice was sharper than he intended. "You worth being seen."

"Everyone else might disagree," he pondered.

"I am radically different from anyone else, then," He told him.

It brought a faint grin, a shadow of his regular wit-dripping smirk, to Alastair's face. He opened his mouth and then restrained himself. "This is foolish, so bloody foolish of me."

Thomas's brows knitted. "Whatever is it?"

He shook his head, dark hair flying as he tried to clear away his racing mind. Before he could think better, Thomas put a rough hand on Alastair's shoulders.

He didn't know how to tell him it's okay, to describe him his thoughts and feelings. He hadn't realized he was already speaking. "It's not foolish to feel. You do not have to hide Your emotions. Crying, loving - it won't make you any frail."

Alastair clutched his breath and looked away. Thomas took one step closer to Alastair. 

"Alastair." He coaxed the gentleman to look at him. He raised his chin up so his gaze met Thomas's. Something powerful passed between them. His words were barely above a whisper. "You don't have to pretend with me."

A chill went through the room. Alastair's expression changed, and Thomas realized how close they were - close enough to reach a hand and grip the other's hand.

Alastair's look was wild. Thomas swallowed, but he found himself unable to move away.

"May I kiss you?"

Thomas was too thunderstruck to say or do a thing, his lungs suddenly yearning for air. He did not retreat backward, however, so Alastair took one step toward the tall man. Then, Alastair grabbed the collar of Thomas's shirt and crashed his lips against Thomas's.

Several circuits in Thomas's brain experienced a short circuit. His eyes squeezed shut all by themselves; His body stopped in its tracks while the scent of Alastair penetrated his nostrils, of cologne and books and dewdrops. His velvet-like hair tickled his forehead.

Thomas was overwhelmed by how decently their mouths matched, by how heat climbed from his guts to everywhere else. His pulse raced in his ears and muted all his surroundings. The way Alastair kissed him - in passion and desperation, with so many unspoken words and meanings - drove Thomas nuts. A blazing feeling struck his body. His mind turned to concentrated on one single thing: Alastair. Alastair. Alastair.

Alastair was kissing him. Angel, Alastair Carstairs was _kissing_ him. He was all too aware of the gentleman's hand, thus far still clasping the front of his sleeveshirt tightly. He was all too aware of the warmth radiating from him, of how their lips felt against each other, of how the world seemed to fade away to the margins. 

He tingled with a swarm of unidentified feelings. The Aroma of Alastair's lips was enchanting - of cinnamon and peppermint and foreign coffee and spices and long autumn nights. A mixture of flavors Thomas found himself insatiable with. He was on all counts lost in the kiss. Wasted without a sole sip of alcohol, his body was burning from the abundance of emotions vibrating from his heart far and wide. His body forgot how to operate. All he's done was to stand still while Alastair kissed him for what felt like an eternity.

Thomas didn't return the kiss. In all of this swarm of thoughts, Thomas didn't return the kiss at all. It was what caused Alastair to draw away.

Thomas's eyes fluttered open when Alastair recoiled from him. He searched for the reaction of Thomas, jittery and tensed. Thomas was quite overwhelmed himself, a storm of emotions building in his chest. He tried to open his mouth, only to find he wasn't capable to utter a word. He suspected trying to speak would ensue only daft nonsense.

Time lingered on that minute, and Thomas wondered if they'll remain in eternal silence. Up till Alastair stiffened.

Alastair must have mistaken his reaction as disgust or shame because his eyes evaded his now. Lava drove up through his body. "I apologize for that," Alastair said. Thomas could see how the older man covered the hurt in his eyes with coldness and opaqueness. Thomas's heart sank. "I shouldn't have done that."

Thomas tried to speak, to reply, but it seemed a cat got his tongue. He only stood there, breath taken away, as Alastair didn't take one last glance at him before turning to leave. While Alastair seemed to get his own conclusions of Thomas's behavior, while he seemed to drift away again, withdrawing into himself, Thomas's heart screamed a single name.

The escaping figure of the smaller man had made something deep and loud in Thomas to wake up alive. His body moved in instinct, his pulse pounded in his ears, his heart and soul longed for Alastair - to smell his aroma, to breathe the same air with him, to look into his dark eyes. 

" _Wait_!"

He took a few wide steps and overtook Alastair. He grasped Alastair's sleeveshirt firmly and twisted him back toward him. He only managed to see Alastair's eyes widen before he pushed himself forward. He cupped Alastair's face and smashed their faces together.

Thomas intended to kiss Alastair, but he was not a great expert on kissing, nor did he think about how much force he exerted as he advanced towards Alastair - which led to their noses clashing tightly instead of their mouths.

Thomas, wide-eyed, stumbled backward. A spurt of Spanish curses ran through his head at his foolishness. He stared at Alastair, who was still in front of him. He wondered if he has the same expression as the older man - dumbfounded, absolutely stunned. Alastair held his hand over his nose.

Thomas slowly rubbed his nose. "Ow." 

Alastair fixed his eyes on Thomas. He sniffled and Thomas was afraid he broke the man's nose with the force he used. Instead, a snort escaped Alastair's mouth. He gathered himself soon enough as Thomas looked utterly embarrassed. 

The dark, dazing eyes of Alastair looked at him quizzically, cautious but willing. He tilted his head just the slightest and looked at him expectingly. Oh. 

Thomas inhaled deeply. "Don't leave," He - admittingly pitifully - said. The thought of losing Alastair again was as aggrieving as the first time he learned what Alastair did in their academy years. A prick of terror and pain and sorrow he couldn't bear enduring once more.

"I don't want you to leave," he blushed. "That why I, uh, rather tried to kiss you."

"Tried is the keyword," agreed Alastair. Thoams looked at him and frowned. 

"Will you be serious? You kissed me first."

"I cannot, I'm afraid, " Alastair shrugged, and Thomas only pointed out the other man seemed eminently lighter, "astute comments and a sharp tongue are quite my specialties."

Thomas grunted. "Can I just kiss you so I wouldn't need to listen to your 'astute comments'?"

Alastair frowned, but then hummed in agreement. His gaze lent on Thomas's lips and the latter flushed again. He was concerned he would never be able to stop blushing. The understanding of how rude he'd sounded washed him as well - his mother would've thwack on his head with a scone. That was so much not like him but he couldn't bother to apologize.

Thomas took the unsaid invitation, quickly leaned down so their faces would be just inches apart. He tentatively and softly brushed his lips against Alastair's. 

It was much more fragile and sweet than the first - slow and facile, bearly more than a peck. Yet, it felt as if he held the moon in his palms. He thought a batter of different ideations will cape his mind. Instead, the reminiscence of his thought vanished as soon as his lips lent on the full, warm ones of Alastair.

He hesitantly imitated Alastair's moves, soon lost in the kiss and the dance of their mouths. It was a brand-new experience, one that drove chills down his body and made his heart pounder in what he now spotted as desire. Thomas had not known what do to. He had had not been in such a situation, never wooing women - or men - and experiencing what he felt now.

And Good Lord, it was _marvelous_. If he knew this is the way he'd feel - his body tingling and buzzing, his heart pumping hard, his mind humming in desire and pleasure - he might have tried to search for someone earlier.

But then, like cold water pouring on his heart, the thought of doing anything like this with someone else - someone who's not Alastair, seemed lacking and wrong. How so very fast, he conquered every thought on Thomas's mind? 

Thomas felt it wasn't enough. His hands slid to Alastair's waist, digging his fingers in, coaxing him to move his lips faster.

Alastair's rough and steady hands cupped his head, pressing their lips together closer. _He feels like winter_ , Thomas thought, _cold but promises warm hugs and hidden beauty_. He indulged on Alistair's closeness and warmth - the hand on the back of his neck; trailing back and forth in his brown hair; The way their chests were smashed together as if they tried to close any possible gap between them. Alastair mumbled nothings in Farsi in Thomas's mouth, in a voice deep and downy.

Thomas grinned at the words, endearments that made him feel fuzzy inside.

They only parted when they both desperately needed air. His heart tried fleeing from its cage of ribs. That's it - he will die forthwith, not brutal death of wounds and blood, but one completely different, because every part of him wanted to get closer to Alastair, to capture him in his arms, to feel him until he'll lose his mind.

Alastair arched underneath Thomas, and just then he realized he pressed Alastair against the piano. Their breaths mixed and he heard their hearts beating fast and unevenly.

It hit him like a flash. He and Alastair, pressed against the other in the dim-lightened music room.

"I see you really wanted me to hush up," Alastair commented, sighing into the boy's shoulder. His voice was hoarse and thick, addictive to Thomas' ears.

"No," Thomas admitted. "I even like some of the nonsense which comes out of your mouth."

"Nonsense?" repeated Alastair. He didn't look offended - rather amused. 

"I, uh, yes," Thomas mumbled, now nervous for his slip of the tongue.

But it didn't matter once he saw Alastair's expression. His lips swollen, his cheeks flaming, his eyes glimmering. The grin on his lips made Thomas burst with affection. He left a small kiss on Alastair's cheek before he drew back, creating a small gap between them.

Promptly, he yearned to return to the messy embrace, but he managed to restrain himself. He gained some solace from the fact that Alastair did not seem pleased with the new distance between them either.

"You are, er, my first kiss," he revealed to Alastair, which in return looked stunned and also rather satisfied. Thomas ruffled his own hair restlessly, wondering if his looks were as disheveled as Alastair's. 

"well," Alastair said eventually, eyes gleaming, "I am also your second. And your third."

Thomas bent his head down as they were yet at grasp-length, pouting. "Shall you really consider that nose-bumping a kiss, now-?"

He was cut short by Alastair rising on his tip-toes, his lips sweetly caressing Thomas's own. Thomas's chocked on his breath, caught off guard, but his hands wrapped the leaner body instantaneously. Alastair wrinkled his nose. "You assuredly are gigantic," he proclaimed.

Thomas knew his face will never stop burning. Not when Alastair looked at him that way, not when his heart throbbing so hard he wondered how the whole London enclave doesn't know where they are. Not when he didn't want it to halt.

He found it unjust to deprive him of Alastair's lips now. Thus, he tightened his grip slightly, keeping Alastair close.

Alastair extended his hand, stroking Thomas's cheeks as if he was afraid to make him run away from him. His eyes - the look of them, as if he got the most exquisite dagger he encountered; As if Thomas was a found treasure to cherish lifelong.

Thomas sucked in his breath.

"Shoma khoshgel hasti, "He murmured on Thomas's lips, each syllable causes a graze between their lips. _You are beautiful._

Thomas wondered if Alastair knew he comprehended Farsi. He never mentioned it before nor the gentleman ever saw him talk with Cordelia or Lucie in the foreign language. 

"Eres Lindo", Thomas retorted. Thomas felt dizzy - as if he can dive into a horde of demons with a luminous smile on his face. He closed his eyes, overjoying their clenched bodies and raspy breathes and the scandalous-yet-too-far distance between them.

He was thrown back into reality by the feeling of the edges of Alastair's fingers brush the joint of his palm. The delicate graze caused thousands of chills to pass through Thomas' body.

"Can we - try to figure it out?" Alastair asked.

There was a genuine, quiet tone in his voice, one that made Thomas's heart throbbing faster. A fraction of boldness passed through Thomas.

He found himself cracking a smile. "Does that mean I'll get to kiss you again?"

Alastair's cheeks darkened. Thomas couldn't even describe how much he adored that look on the other man's face; It made his stomach flutter.

He took the hand that was still lingering on his wrist in his hand, holding Alastair's small one. Alastair took a breath and tilted his head to look up at Thomas. "Very well, yes." He answered.

Thomas's smile got wider. "In that case," he spoke, "I certainly do." 

__

 _"Tom_!" A voice called out. The two gasped together. It was Lucie. They heard steps coming from the hallway.

Separating hastily, Alastair bolted out of Thomas's muscled arms. Thomas jolted back as well, eyes wide as he turned to the doorway and then to Alastair.

Alastair was quite a sight - his jacket and waistcoat were disarranged, his hair ruffled. His face was yet flushed and his lips red and swollen. He pushed back a piece of ebony dark hair off his eyes, helplessly trying to silk his hair back. Thomas made an effort to collect himself as well. 

He knew what was impending. The strides stopped right outside the music room. A light knock on the door formally announced Lucie's arrival. 

"Thomas?"

The door opened as Thomas stumbled backward, shuffling in his place and Alastair fixed straightening his waistcoat. Lucie's head peeked from the door.

"Lucie, hello," Thomas said deftly.

"Here you are!" She cheered blissfully. Lucie passed the door, now fully visible. She took in the scene in front of her and looked at Thomas, her smile wavering in confusion when she saw his messed attire. He gave her an apologetic, hesitant grin. Her eyes flashed at Alastair, examing him with a curious spark in them. "I see you found Alastair."

"Yes," Thomas coughed, facing to behold Alastair as well. Alastair next to him seemed all collected and calm. Better than him, at the very least.

"What happened to your face?"

"Allergic reaction," he answered wisely.

Lucie's eyebrows rose to the line of her hair. "Allergic reaction?"

"Indeed," Said Thomas eloquently. Alastair snickered. He glanced at her with a drab look.

"I haven't felt compelled to join the brunch, so myself and Thomas decided to stay and chatter," Alastair provided. "We assumed you and my sister won't need an escort to train today so we could be on our own."

Lucie nodded, eyes brightening. She didn't seem to capture the salty note to Alastair's words or she decidedly ignored it.

"Oh, we don't! I simply came to my brother's aid - he's arrived, Tom." 

"Splendid." Alastair said, "May you tell him Thomas will accede him soon, for we wish to finish our talk?"

The keen look on her face was rarely used - her mouth tightening, brows frowning, eyes piercing like a dagger. Thomas tried to talk - to explain or justify the reason why the two boys were in the music room, or why Alastair asked her to convey the message.

Lucie glanced at the two, eyes moving from one to another. Then, she spoke slowly. "I will go distract James." She announced. None of the boys replied.

Alastair just stood still, watching as Thomas nodded his head. Lucie's severe expression split into a mischievous one, eyes glittering and a smile on her lips. She turned on her heels. She disappeared back into the corridor and closed the door, not before calling, "omidvaram khosh begzare!"

Alastair flushed at her words, and Thomas could only stare at where she stood a moment ago. Alastair rebounded hastily. He leisurely turned to look back at the taller man's face.

"She will be smothered if she spills out anything ridiculous," Thomas murmured. Alastair laughed at the menace. Both of them knew the threat will not be fulfilled. 

"I doubt, from the little I know, you could fetter her tracks of mind." Alastair quipped unhelpfully.

"Lord, thank you," Thomas said flatly. He looked at Alastair with a grimace he wished delivered his feelings.

Alastair gave out a smile - one that Thomas found adorable. Some beautiful truths that blossomed inside his heart, wished to be told, to be recognized. He aspired, with time, he would be able to live them to the man in front of him. 

I'm falling for you. I've been since you came to London, I've been even though all that happened.

He pushed himself closer to Alastair so their faces were just inches apart.

"I," Alastair closed his eyes for a brief moment before focusing them on Thomas. He looked so frank and with no guard, Thomas felt his knees popping. "Angel knows I might be quite a hard-to-reach-"

"Might?"

Alastair scoffed, and Thomas only found it admirable. He laughed brightly. Alastair narrowed his eyes at him. "All I say is, I wouldn't have been bewildered if you hadn't returned the sentiments. "

"Clearly," Thomas said, as he reached his hand to grasp Alastair's. "I do reciprocate those sentiments."

Alastair studied him before saying, "You never cease to astonish me, Lightwood." 

It stang when Alastair called him Lightwood now, for a reason he couldn't decipher. Thomas shrugged. "I live to amaze." He closed his eyes and his breath became ragged. "Shall I repeat my sayings about feelings?"

"Please, not another heartfelt speech."

Thomas laughed. He leaned on, surprising Alastair by pressing their forehead against each other. Alastair let himself unwind. For why he longed the most innocent touches between them, and he felt secure to leave himself defenseless in the tall gentleman's presence.

"I might take a liking to it," he told Alastair.

Alastair's half-closed eyes flung open at the words. Something unidentifiable, a look Thomas couldn't quiet unfold. Thomas didn't know what he might've said wrong - was it too candidly? He did not intend to be so inappropriate and forthright.

Panic started to fold Thomas. He couldn't, most obviously, discern the burst of feelings in Alastair's soul and heart. Alastair was not able to open his mouth and tell him how much it meant to him, the gospel truth Thomas wanted it just as he did. That he was willing to investigate that unfamiliar ground they walked on in their relationship. That despite it all, Thomas wanted _him_.

Alastair cut his gaze to Thomas's face. His body was throbbing, his stomach turning. He looked into those Hazel of Thomas - so addictive, he felt he can dive into the hidden depts of them for hours. Instead of a verbal response, he plainly planted a chaste kiss on Thomas's lips.

Alastair lingered there for a moment, much to Thomas's contentment, before breaking free again. 

He seemed much more unbuttoned than how he looked before. A warm feeling buzzed through Thomas's body. He was glad he could make that difference, he made the boy in front of him to smile. And when he smiled with no smidgen of ridicule or defense, he was even more handsome. 

Thomas told him just that.

Alastair looked genially amused. "If you say so."

Thomas didn't know who reached the other first - what he did know, was his mouth was on Alastair's again, passion and heat driving through his veins to every cell and cell. Their height difference caused Thomas to arch and Alastair to stretch out, his arms enclosing Alastair, his scent involving with his. He had no other way to describe it - Alastair was addictive. He pressed his body harder as Alastair's fingernails dug into his brown hair.

On an impulse, he grabbed Alastair's waist and swung him to the wall. They didn't break the kiss, Alastair wrapped his legs around Thomas's waist as the big man pulled him up from the ground. This was so striking, so bizarre, Thomas couldn't help but chuckle happily.

Finally at the same eye level, he broke the kiss to lay soft pecks on Alastair's nose and cheeks. Thomas gasped when Alastair tugged his hair, urging him back to their kiss. Thomas complied, and Alastair took the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

Alastair surrounded first, pulling back only when he felt his lungs were burning. Thomas panted heavily, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Alastair wanted to dive into the profound eyes of the man in front of him.

"Lightwood," he said breathily onto Thomas's chest where he leaned his face on. It sounded like a prayer, a word that would defend him against the world, something to believe in, to trust and care for.

Thomas desired to be all that to Alastair.

Feeling as if the other man ignited something Thomas didn't know he had, a warm burn that he found enticing, he pressed harder against the other body. To Thomas's opinions, their bodies fitted flawlessly. So did their mouths.

A blithe smile appeared on Thomas's face. "Are we back to surnames? I was affirmative we passed that stage."

Alastair huffed and straightened his back against the wall, giving Thomas a better perspective of him. He admired the way Alastair's dark hair fell on his forehead, the soft strands that curled up on the sides of his face; This time he didn't hesitate and laced his fingers into the smoothed strings.

"Your eyes are beautiful, your hair is soft, your mouth is -" Thomas then blushed, two flares of red burning upon his cheeks.

A smile fought its place on Alastair's lips, but he kept his face indifferent and raised an eyebrow. "What about my mouth, Lightwood?"

Thomas closed his eyes. Knowing Alastair wouldn't let it slip away, he stuttered, mumbling begrudgingly, "Your mouth."

"Yes, what's with it?"

Thomas let out a small growl, heat everywhere as Alastair's teasing continued. "It's perfect."

There was one heartbeat of silence." Well, I think that too." Alastair replied quietly. Thomas could feel the smirk on the Persian's face.

Thomas glanced at him - still all blush and mess - with a bewildered look on his face. He was amazed to find Alastair's face had reddened well. "You think you're mouth is like a work of art?"

"Oh," Alastair said with a hint of astonishment in his voice. He shook his head. "No, you dolt. I was meaning to you."

The Hazel-eyed gentleman's mouth made a soft "O". He managed to form a sentence and not dive right back into Alastair's embrace. "You think my looks are well?"

He did not know why he asked if - it was a ludicrous query. Of course, Alastair has liked his looks, otherwise, they wouldn't be here today. But some part of him longed to hear the words come out of Alastair's mouth. To become reality.

"No," Alastair joked, "I think you look..."

Thomas flushed and looked away, but Alastair quickly cupped his face, forcing him to look him dead in the eye.

"Enticingly handsome," Alastair assured, a smirk increasing as Thomas's bashfulness faded away to dizziness. "You do acknowledge I'm not the only one thinking that, don't you?"

He flushed again, chuckling nervously. "I never thought about it much." admitted, but knowing Alastair find him well-looking made his heart do a flip. 

Alastair rolled his eyes. "This is a lie. one can not attend a ball, see all the ladies looking at one, and think one's just enough agreeable-looking."

Thomas blushed with a sheepish smile, both because of the words and their hidden meaning. He wanted to stay still in time, softly talking with Alastair and enjoying the other's company. But alas, James was waiting for him, and they better not to make anyone question so shortly.

Alastair seemed to fathom the same thing. He dropped his legs to the ground, a bit reluctantly. Sparks still flew between them, and none made the unbelievably hard step to draw away yet.

successfully returning the air to their lungs thereafter, Alastair spoke again. "I wish for it to be proper", He said, voice raspy and low.

Thomas raised an eyebrow and gestured to the space between them, "This was substantially inappropriate."

Alastair opened his mouth, maybe to give a campy comment, before shutting it close. He opened it up again, but nothing came out.

A shy smile reached Alastair's lips, and Thomas stared in amazement. Never had he ever seen this smile on Alastair's face and something pounded him for the honor to make Alastair smile in such a manner. Angel, he loved how Alastair's voice became ragged and breathy and decreased by several octaves. He loved the swelling of his lips following the kisses, the reddish color that the shaped lips got, the way breath escaped in puffs from Alastair's mouth. The way it motioned when it formed words and sounds he wished to keep hearing.

He was shaken back to reality as the brown hand of the older man grazed with his shoulder, cautiously. "Mhmm?"

"I asked if you would accede to a dinner, this evening?"

Thomas inwardly cursed, "I have dinner with my family tonight, I cannot."

Alastair seemed disappointed for a split second, before nodding in understanding. "I see. What about Saturday, then?" 

Thomas rubbed his chin, pensive. He offered a smile to Alastair. "I can sort it out."

"Saturday it is, then," Alastair reflected the smile, stealing another brief kiss before stepping away. Both of them endeavored to cover the instant need to get close again, despite knowing they've been gone for a long time by now from other eyes. Too long, in fact.

None of them found it in themselves to care.

__

**(As they left the music room, as Thomas went to detect James and Alastair went to locate his sister, both couldn't wipe the smile off their faces. Thomas had no intention to kiss the boy in the music room, but he was glad he did.)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far! Comments are always appreciated!  
> What should my next work be? Angst or fluff?


	3. We Will Get Through This (Carstairs family)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair's secret is out to the world and family is there to comfort and remind him it's fine to be himself.  
> Just a very short drabble~

**Disclaimer: The Shadowhunters world and the characters belong to Cassandra Clare.**

* * *

His sin, his weakness, as he called it, was out to the world. Now all of the London enclave - and soon everyone, as Cordelia knew on her own flash and bones how rumors fly fast, like a fire in a field of thrones - will know about his preference for men. Alastair gulped loud, his eyes on the floor as he did not there do look at any of them.

He opened his mouth, maybe to apologize, but their mother spoke first.

“Do not,” Cordelia was surprised by Sona’s gentle tone. She did not use it ever since they were small children, still shielded from the cruelties of the world. “Do not apologize for being who you are, Alastair _joon_.”

“Mâmân is right, Dâdash,” Cordelia intervened in, her voice compassionate and warm. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t shed a tear, she didn’t dare to. “We love you just as you are, you know it. You should not feel ashamed of your true self. Not to us, not to anyone.”

Alastair made a strange noise, dark and strangled, as he finally met his mother’s gaze. The tremor of his body made Cordelia’s heart aching for her brother. “I do apologize for disgracing our family. I, I can not live with myself knowing all the scandalous rumors about our family which will appear, that our family to bear because of my-because of my-”

Cordelia moved closer to lay a hand on his shoulder. Sona was in tears, and she came to Alastair and cupped his face lovingly, brushing off the quiet tears that, to Cordelia’s amazement, escaped Alastair’s eyes.

Sona soothed her son as he quietly cried in her arms. Small whines rose from Alastair’s mouth and he shivered like a leaf in the wind. Streams of tears made their way on his flushed cheeks. He took the rare suggested comfort of his mother and sister’s embrace, burying his face in Sona’s shoulder.

“I promise you, Azizam. We will get through it, together. You don’t have to hide any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More - and much longer - is to come. But I like this drabble.  
> I did not mean to post it here at all, but I have two Thomastair on the work, and I don't want them to be deleted, so here you go!
> 
> My next - Kiss the boy in the music room.
> 
> My tumbler is @styxdrawings, if you are interested to follow or read things I won't post here :)


	4. "Maybe, Maybe Not" (Carstairs siblings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carstairs family fluff time. I'll post the long, angsty one someday. I've been busy - a lot - lately, so I pulled this one up pretty badly, but I wish you will enjoy it!  
> For my 100 followers on Tumbler celebration :)  
> Please review!

"Come here," Cordelia wheedled, spreading her arms. "Come to your sister, azizam."

Their sibling, sitting on the other side of the carpet, was too busy playing with his toy to notice. He was bubbling and giggling as he shook the Persian doll vigorously.

"This is ridiculous," commented Alastair from his place on the armchair. He laid there, twisted so one leg was over the arm of the chair and the other fell to the floor. He also, for five minutes straight, kept saying how ludicrous Cordelia's attempts were.

"You will see," she retorted, redoubling her effort for the sake of proving Alastair wrong. She reached out her arms and signaled their sibling to get closer. "Come on, _B_ _araadar-e koochektar_. Let's prove our ill-tempered brother you can do it!"

Alastair rolled his eyes, cutting his gaze back to the newspaper in his hands. "He still too young to crawl. Leave him off alone." 

"No," she insisted. She looked at her brother with a keen look, despite his eyes rested on the printed words on the newspaper. "He will. Have some faith, Alastair."

"I have faith just alright," he said. "But he'll do it when he's ready."

Cordelia didn't resist making a face. Their baby brother laughed at it, a toothless grin that reminded Cordelia of Alastair's. 

That was one thing she and Alastair would argue about frequently: Whose smile is more like the baby's smile, what weapons would he use growing up, would he like Persian literature and art like them and Maman, what food he'd like, what music he'd prefer (Alastair stated their brother loves classical music, she's certain he prefer Blues much better).

"You talk as if I make him walk on a five feet tall rope. It's just crawling." She smiled fondly at her baby brother. "Oh, little one, I hope you won't end up like Alastair." She pretended to shudder from the thought. "Great Lord, I'd do all in my force to prevent such tragedy."

"Very amusing," Alastair said dryly.

Her brother looked up at her, chubby cheeks flushed from glee and expression clear of any fuss. Cordelia smiled to him encouragingly, coaxing him up to try and reach her. He glanced at her innocently for three steady seconds before ignoring her again in favor of the toy in his hand. 

Cordelia stared blankly. Alastair mumbled under his breath, and she turned to glare at him. He pressed his lips together, clearly suppressing a grin.

"What?" she demanded.

"Maybe he just doesn't want to come to you," he suggested. She captured the smug smirk playing on his lips and narrowed her eyes at him.

"What is it you implying?" she demanded, peeved already. 

Alastair didn't seem bothered by her exasperation. He cocked his eyebrows. "Nothing, sister. Nothing at all."

She crossed her arms on her chest. "You think he is not trying because he isn't interested in coming to me, especially."

"How observant of you."

He was indifferent to her irritation, which made her even more annoyed. She huffed at Alastair's irksome demeanor. "You won't do any better on this field."

"Of course I will," her brother said in a superior voice. "You clearly don't know how to capture his eye."

"And you do?"

"Yes, most obviously, " he responded.

It was Cordelia's turn to arch her eyebrows, a challenging smile on her face. "Oh, really? So why don't you, dear brother, try to make him crawl toward you?"

Alastair made his signature eye-rolling. "Because it's childish. And because he can very well do so on his own."

She clicked her tongue. "Are these excuses? Besides, you said a moment ago he's still too young."

"He is," Alastair clarified.

"But he's a Carstairs, we always come ahead of our time," she smiled at him. She swept imaginary dust away from her dress. It was too late, she knew; Alastair's challenge was accepted - and she was determined to prove him wrong. "If I didn't know better, I would say you don't think he'll come to you, seeing as you refuse to prove your saying of him not wanting to crawl only to me. _You_ should have no problem then."

He squinted at her, grumbling, and she thought he might simply go to his room and ignore her for the rest of the day. However, he tossed his newspaper aside and looked her straight in the eye. "I know what you are trying to do."

"I have no doubt," she answered. "But it's working, isn't it?"

He didn't reply but glanced at their brother. Their sibling has been rolling over, rocking, and dragging himself on his belly in the course of the last months. She always was fascinated and full of joy to see their baby brother stumbling around; pushing himself to sit, reaching to whatever near to grab or investigate with dark curious eyes.

"Just give him a toy he likes. He is fond of that baby rattle with the dragons' decorations as much as this Persian doll."

"Ah," Cordelia said, faking the incredulous tone in her voice. Her glinting eyes and curving smile failed her, though. "You need to bribe him with toys! How poor of you, Alastair."

He rolled his eyes again. Cordelia chuckled. "Let's make a deal. If I lose, I will give you one of my books."

Alastair tilted his head quizzically, but his look was drab. "A book?"

"It's a very fine book," she protested. "Tessa Herondale bought it for me, a rare book in Farsi, so it's sentimental. Just to show how gravely I take it."

"I am not convinced," he revealed pensively.

Alastair hummed and looked over at her, and she scowled. She knew what he wanted to hear. "I will _not_ say it."

"You already know my answer, then."

She restrained herself before she could stick her tongue out at him. She begrudgingly nodded. Then, "As you may. But if I win, you have to perform a song in front of all my friends."

His eyes widened and he made some sort of choking sound. "Pardon?"

"You heard me," she smiled mischievously. "It's only fair." 

Alastair considered her, still thunderstruck. "In what world is it fair? A song in exchange for a book I don't desire? I eat my hat before this would ever happen."

"So to Maman, Papa, Risa, and myself. And our sibling, of course. Be that as it may, I agreed to add the second part to your request, so I want a song."

Alastair shook his head but seemed less strained. He scowled - not unlike she did before - but deemed it fair. "Alright."

She pushed it far enough already. Yet, she gave it a last try. "Include that little say you made me add, and we are on our way."

Alastair's expression made his answer clear. Cordelia rubbed her hands together. "Your face when you lose will be enough, I suppose. The song is just a benefit."

Alastair snorted. He lifted himself to his feet and reached to them. "We will see." 

He sat cross-legged on another edge of the carpet, so both were in front of their baby brother on different corners. 

Cordelia spread his arms, twisting her fingers to gesture to the baby to come. Alastair was a bit stiff as he called their brother's name, too self-conscious to do the same thing. Their sibling seemed baffled by the additional attention drawn toward him, ruthlessly rattling his doll and staring at them.

"Look how surprised he seems by getting your attention," Cordelia pondered. Their brother rocked back a forth on the muted carpet, pushing his hand into his face as if he was wondering what he should do.

"Nonsense. He always looks like that," he dismissed. 

"I decided to ignore your remark. Azizam, come here," she cajoled, concentrating on her mission. "Would you not like to play some music with me?"

One thing both siblings agreed on was their brother's attachment to music. Once, left on the kitchen floor, he took a wooden spoon and decided to hit a pot with it, ostensibly creating music for his own ears. He later threw it, unintentionally, at Cordelia. Alastair could barely keep his face straight when it happened and reminisced it for weeks.

"Who's bribing who now, Cordelia?" quipped her brother, and was rewarded by a giggle from their brother. He twirled an eyebrow. "It seems like he got my sense of humor."

"A natural disaster, really," she teased. Alastair gave her an amused look. A small sound made her glance forward. The word 'music' apparently intrigued him because their sibling's eyes were fixed on her.

"Oh, Would you like that, baby brother? " She smiled victoriously, spreading her arms. "Come to me, and we could play together." 

"Or, I could play the piano, unlike Cordelia," suggested Alastair. He changed position so that he knelt now, pressing his hands on the knees. He leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "And you could assist with the drums."

Cordelia pouted. "That was my idea," she complained. "And I will be a much better companion to play music with." 

Alastair rolled his eyes again. "So to speak."

he opened her mouth to tell her older brother he is wasting time and is wrong about what he is trying to prove when she saw the movement in the corner of her eye. Their brother left behind his toy. He swung his legs, slipping more than once, putting one small hand after the other as he attempted to crawl.

"Alastair," she gasped, forgetting their banter. "He is doing it! He's crawling!"

She turned, elated, to share her awe with Alastair. He looked at their brother wonderingly - It was a rare, open expression on her brother's face that made her smirk wider. His lips turned upward and tinted his face with a smile. She suspected her expression is similar. 

The older Carstairs siblings observed as their brother made his way toward them on the carpet. Cordelia decided no matter whom the baby will come to, she couldn't be more joyous. "Mother should see it," Alastair mumbled.

Cordelia nodded. "It would be a nice surprise when she gets back from tea with the Lightwoods."

Alastair swept his head so swiftly a few strands fell on his eyes. "Wait," he stuttered out. "Which Lightwoods?"

Cordelia flushed and turned her attention back to her little brother. She watched as he tried to move his leg unsuccessfully. "Come to your sister, _Baraadar_!"

"Layla," he said, his voice informing her he won't let her away without an answer. "Is Mother with Sophie and Gideon Lightwood?"

"Maybe," she conceded. She kept her eyes on their brother "Maybe not."

"Cordelia-"

"It's our brother's first time crawling, do you really want to miss it?" 

"We'll talk about it later," he snapped, and Cordelia found it inequitable. She had nothing to do with whom their mother went out with, and it was certainly not her fault Sophie and Gideon Lightwood happened to be Alastair's partner's parents.

Now fully settled on their brother, they watched as he ungracefully wiggled himself toward them. They encouraged him to get up when he fell and smiled at him when he raised his head to their voices. Cordelia even clapped her hands.

The baby crawled, not fairly straight, but if she reached her hands out she could hold him now. So could Alastair, but she tried her luck. "I think it considered my win."

"Not quite yet, Layla." The baby fell on his belly. He struggles to find his balance and continued to come closer, his visage as if he wondered himself what was going on.

They watched in astonishment as he kept wiggling his legs and hands, and then passed them. They both changed confused glanced and turned over, watching as a pair of hands grabbed their sibling's small figure. 

"Risa!"

Their baby brother snuggled himself contentedly in Risa's embrace, and she gave the both of them amused looks. She turned away to leave the room.

The Carstairs siblings locked eyes with one another.

"That's unjust!" She exclaimed. "Risa wasn't one of the choices."

As Risa walked away, they heard her laughter echoing from the corridor. Alastair's eyes went on hers again. "So, what was it about Mother and the Lightwoods?"

Cordelia just grunted and shook her head.


	5. Trust Me With Thy Heart (Thomastair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt\comort based on a prompt from Tumbler: "Please hold me".  
> Warnings: contains angst, a bit of self-harm,  
> I hope you will like it! :)

Thomas wasn't fond of fights.

Demons were one thing. Their destiny as Shadowhunters was to protect mankind from those filthy monsters who invade their world. They brought disorder and death. The people he cared about were a different tale. 

A light jest with his friends, why not? A banter with his father about taking the coat or not while going outside? Sure. But not a very tumultuous, tempestuous strife with them. He preferred them all to get along with each other. 

Thomas liked even less when it was him involved in the disagreement.

He spent the last day jogging between massive training seasons, hanging out with his friends, and losing himself in his thoughts. Now, he avoided everyone in favor of reading _Rubaiyat_ _of Omar Khayyam_. He made a special effort to tell no one where he was going, so non could bother him and ask him questions.

So Thomas was stunned when Ariadne Bridgestock, of all people, rushed through the entry in an unmatched combination of grace and ivory skirts, then flopped herself onto the armchair in front of Thomas.

While she had had a pleasant expression on her face, there was a dangerous gleam in her eyes. If Thomas hadn't known better, he would've sworn she came here to murder him.

"You and Alastair fought," she stated.

Thomas glanced between his book to her determined face twice, considering his options. Then, on behalf of good manners, he put a bookmark on the current page he pretended to be reading for half an hour. "Is it Alastair's way to tell me to speak to him? If so, please tell him not to embroil any other folks in _our_ relationship."

"He hadn't sent me," Ariadne ignored the last part of his sentence. "But he did not arrive for our conclave."

A spark of concern lightened up in Thomas, yet he repressed it. He was angry with Alastair, Thomas reminded himself. "And what have you speculated I can do about it?"

She looked at him funny. "Talk to him, I presume."

"Ariadne," he tried, weariness falling heavy on him. "While I appreciate your concern, I doubt Alastair wants to see me. In fact, I doubt whether _I_ want to see him right now. I know you confide in each other-" more than Alastair does with him, the bitter thought tore its way into his head. "And your intentions are well, but I will highly prefer to keep this between myself and Alastair."

He thought this would give her down and make her apologize. "Alastair wouldn't have sent someone else, and he didn't solicit help from myself," she said instead. "He would've given time to you both to collect your minds, and then come to you in clearer mind."

It was right. He knew it was. "So this parley is all you?"

"As I said, Yes. I worried for my friend, who happened to be your partner."

Thomas brushed his thumb on the spine of the book, musing over her words. "Why would you be worried?"

"He stood me up. I came by your flat later, just for him to say nothing has happened. When I asked where you were, he conceded you two had a big bump in the road."

"That's a nice way to put it," Thomas murmured. "I frankly wished to be left alone. It's nothing-"

"Thomas," Her amber eyes met hazel ones. "You are good at many things. Fighting demons, and keeping the rest of the Thieves out of trouble, for example."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Lying is not one of them."

Thomas swallowed, endeavoring to hide the feeling of hurt off his face. Recalling what happened a few days before made his whole body ache in pain. "So Alastair and I had a row. It always happens with lads." 

"It's not just a lad for you," she pressed. He was wide aware of the chastisement in her words. "It's Alastair. And never have I seen him the way he looked when I checked on him."

"What do you mean?" he asked after he perceived her words. "Alastair was absolutely fine when I left the flat yesterday." 

"You have to see for yourself." Ariadne said, "Go to him."

Despite the knots formed in the abdomen, he dithered. "Things ended up stormy when we last spoke. Maybe he's still mad. Maybe I'm still mad."

It wasn't just Alastair who was mad. He wondered how Alastair had been this past day, and how was he feeling, among many other thoughts. Yet the cloud of exhaustion and hurt surrounding him perturbated the nervousness. He was allowed to be upset about what happened. It sure wasn't nothing. Not on his part, at most. Why couldn't Alastair just-

"Excuses are not appreciated," Ariadne announced, "So you better confront him already, or I swear I shall chase you to the end of the Earth with my electrum whip." Ariadne threatened, and that what had taken to wake Thomas out of his hesitation.

"Of course," he sighed, "Because I don't have enough troubles already."

She brushed it off again with a smile, and Thomas felt mildly annoyed. He hadn't shown it. "Sort it out. It will benefit the two of you to tackle the problem."

She left no place for arguments. Utterly abandoning the book, Thomas rose to his feet and went to leave the room. 

He was glad to get out of the grip of this confusing confab, but he was even more unsure if to listen to her advice.

He was still angry with Alastair.

****

A veil of fog surrounded the city. It was a prevalent London day, cool and cloudy. The wind is blowing hard, welcoming passersby in a burst of freezing breeze. A thunderstorm on its way, they said.

But those were the last of things that perturbed Alastair's peace of mind. It matched his mood just fine. If someone was to describe him, curled up on his bed alone, he could imagine being portrayed as forlorn and tormented.

No, what bothered him was a particular someone that left and hasn't returned. Alastair hated he still hoped Thomas would return and make him less cold.

His breath was heavy, and his lungs burned like fire. He remembered words that haunted him for weeks in the past. _I believed you were more than what others said about you. I conceived myself beneath all the harsh words, was someone with a kind soul waiting to be seen. Was it all a lie I told myself?_

Darkness flooded his senses. Trying to get any portion of self-control on his body he could, Alastair rose to his feet, glancing out of the window on unsteady legs without seeing anything at all. _Gather yourself together._

But the words burned deep then, and they burned deep now. That was a battle against himself he meant to lose. The cold spread not only from the world beyond the window but from within him. It pulled out his ugly head, writhing and furious, desperately trying to break free and rise to the surface. People walked in the streets, oblivious to his troubles just as he was to theirs.

Thomas wasn't there.

Thomas wasn't there, and Cordelia wasn't there, and anyone he loved wasn't there. He locked himself in their flat for the past day, overthinking and speculating and wondering why did he have to be the way he is. If Thomas had finally realized he deserved someone so much better than Alastair, would he be surprised? Alastair was aware of this fact too well. The way he looked at him when they fought, the shaky hands when he opened the door, and the hours of waiting in case Thomas will return, just for nothing to happen. What does it mean if not that Alastair finally made Thomas give up and leave?

This inner part of him was crying, demanded to be heard, to be set free. A shrill cry came to his ears, and it took him a moment to perceive it belonged to him.

His vision became vague, his head ached, and everything spun around. He tried to lay a hand on the wall - only to find he miscalculated the distance and fell ungracefully on his knees. His heart pounded in his chest while the darkness tried to pull him in; He tried to take a breath and dozens of small knives tore his lungs up. He shrank, gasping for air that didn't come. 

Everything seemed blurry, all his mind could engross in was the words Thomas Lightwood told him, the cold truth dripping from them, freezing Alastair all over again. 

Alastair was accountable for all the hideous things he'd done and said, unquestionably. How weak is he that he hides behind shallow faces and vicious words? What a dolt he is, hurting a person, mainly the only person outside of his family that seemed to genuinely care for him. His words rang in his head, Thomas's voice haunting every corner _._

He sank lower, his breathing gurgling, reaching out in search of something stable, something that would serve as a pillar in the chaos that ensued around him. His hand extended out to the still air and then groped for something to hold on the floor. That came the way of a cold, sharp object that lay on the ground. He gripped it tightly, and he groaned in pain and relief at the physical ache that eased his mind.

"Alastair?" A voice called.

****

Thomas was about to lose his right mind. Alastair was trembling vigorously, barely able to stand on his feet that were shaking like a leaf swaying in the wind.

"Alastair," Thomas stuttered, with no response back. His indignation vanished to immediate panic. "Alastair?" he repeated more stubbornly.

His chest went up and down quickly; His eyes were wide like that of a deer caught in the automobile light. When Thomas tried to take a step toward him, the smaller man stiffened and stood bolt upright. Thomas stopped dead.

"I came at the behest of Ariadne," he said, just for the sake of talking. Alastair hadn't told him to quiet, so he kept going. "And because I was worried about you."

"Leave," Alastair hissed out frantically. Thomas couldn't stop the throbbing burn striking through his body.

Thomas took a few steps back, allowing Alastair his space. He had no temptation to leave as he requested - Thomas simply waited aside, for a chance Alastair would change his mind. He recalled the nights he woke up from a nightmare, dazed and overwhelmed with emotions, and how Alastair always reassured him in the dead of night.

 _This_ Alastair seemed lost in his own mind, unable to escape, and it terrified Thomas. Yet, he shoved the dread aside and put on the most relaxing facade he could. He was told to be quite good at it.

"I'm right here, Azizam." 

"Everyone leaves. You can do as well."

Somewhere in his mind, the pieces joined together, like a colossal puzzle. Was he afraid Thomas would leave him? That he would give up on him? he told him he could leave in their run-in, because he thought everyone will leave him in the end? 

"I don't know. I don't know how to do it." To cease making the wrong decision. To cease pushing people away. To cease hurting people. "man nemidânam."

"Alastair, can you hear me?"

As he found out, Alastair did not hear him. "I don't want to hurt you. I already hurt you so much." Alastair went on, choking on his own words. Thomas was in full panic mode, and he hurried further toward Alastair with barely contained alarm.

 _I find you worth any pain to come,_ Thomas thought. 

"It's fine," Thomas said. "I am fine. I want you to be fine as well. It's much more important to me than whether you may or may not harm me."

Something split in his face, and he took a deep breath down his throat. His eyes snapped to Thomas. The terror on his face made Thomas's heart sink.

"Alastair?" he asked, but it didn't manage to elicit a response from the other man.

Thomas drew closer to Alastair, not missing the flinch passing the half-Persian's body. Thomas could hear his breath, shallow and trembling. He could painfully see the tremor of his hands. The wide eyes that so clearly tried to hold back tears. He took one step closer, and Alastair took one back.

Thomas imminently came to a halt. Alastair squeezed hard against the wall. He looked like a captive animal on the verge of losing hope, a man pushed to the edge, an injured soul. 

Thomas took one step closer. With his enormous figure, it all needed to reach Alastair. He wrapped his arms around the shorter man, didn't let go even when Alastair squirmed, trying to shove him aside, fought to set free from Thomas's grip. His hold only tightened, and he used his strength to shove Alastair's head into his chest. He kept him close, kept even when Alastair protested, kept his hold when Alastair Surrendered abruptly, sinking into the soft material of Thomas's clothing, even when sobs began and his chest got wet from the tears of his love.

Thomas pressed his lips to the dark hair, held Alastair steadily while he cried. No words of reassurance passed between them. Truly, Thomas wasn't sure Alastair would have heard him if he tried. He knew the touch was what Alastair needed. Their embrace was clumsy and distorted, but it was enough. Enough to tell Alastair he wasn't alone; Thomas wouldn't have let him go through this alone.

With a soft sigh, Thomas finally let loose of his grip. He started to pull away and was surprised when he felt fists clasping on the fabric of the front of his sleeveshirt.

"Please," Alastair whispered desperately."Please hold me."

Thomas couldn't find it in himself to deny it to Alastair. They slipped to the floor. Alastair buried his face in Thomas's chest once again, shaking silently. Thomas felt his mouth forming words on his chest, although he could not tell which. All the while, his hands embraced the slim, shaking form of Alastair.

A few minutes had passed. Or an hour. Or a couple of days. Thomas didn't feel the time had passed while he tried to console his beloved one. He closed his eyes and concentrated on moving his hand on Alastair's small back, kept him close. The other hand came to caress the space between his ear and jawline, where he was creating circles on the tender skin.

Slowly, The dark-haired's breath became more even.

"Here you are," Thomas let a breath of both exhaustion and relief leave his body. "Can you hear me, Eshgham?"

"Y-Yes."

"Would you like me to get you a glass of water?"

"No."

Thomas sighed inertly as he held the other gentleman in his warm hands, promising reassurance and no judgment. Alastair, for the matter, clang to him as if he was drowning and Thomas was his only lifeline.

He never liked to fight with Alastair. It rarely happened, but when it did it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a pang at his heart. But he was not going to give up - not on this. He remembered his mother once told him couples fight, sometimes, because they still care about what the other does. It was their first argument with their new agreement. It didn't make him feel any better at the time. All his life he had been surrounded with unconditioned love, never exposed to the arguments and the imperfect details. It made him view love as just sweet and honey, while he learned that there's more with Alastair.

There's the giving. And the receiving. The trust in the other's intentions and the willingness to make them your priority foremost of all. The disagreements make you understand when your boundaries are and open a place for learning and acceptance. The balance you build with time, something he hoped he could shape with the man in front of him.

The trust part, to his belief, was something they still were working on. Alastair had leaned on him, and Thomas wondered it he thought now he calmed down, Thomas would leave him again. He did the last time.

"I'm not leaving," They locked eyes, and for some reason, he felt hope. "Alastair, I'm not leaving."

There are very few things he wanted more than Alastair. Verily, He was what he longed for above everything else. He wanted Alastair and everything he was.

Alastair didn't answer, but he averted his eyes.

"Are you ready to go now?"

Alastair seemed slightly lost, but he nodded and weakly stood on his legs. He followed Thomas while Thomas flung himself up and let Alastair sat on their bed beside him. The comfortable place always made both feel better - The mix of English and Persian and Spanish books on the bookshelves. The notebooks full of poems Thomas kept beside his side of the bed. Alastair's spears collection. The artworks they bought when they visited art galleries.Even the soft yellow light was a source of relief.

"You are mad," proclaimed Alastair in a hoarse voice.

"So are you," Thomas returned. Alastair shook his head, and Thomas's eyebrows rose. "So what then, if not mad?"

"Mostly nauseous," Alastair murmured, managing to startle a breathy chuckle out of Thomas. "But also bloody exhausted."

Thomas fumble after the right words, before deciding he should be candid. "I didn't like being apart from you in those few days. But I stick to what I told you before, Alastair." He saw it happening - the wall of defense Alastair was building up again after the last one had crushed. "Let me bring some fresh air into here."

Thomas tried to ventilate the room well while Alastair sank into the mattress and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "If you call the London foggy, polluted air fresh, then sure."

A bit of relief passed because of Alastair's quip. He didn't lose it. "It seems you and my father share this opinion."

Thomas scanned Alastair, then noticed the cut on his right palm. Absentmindedly, he approached his side.

"Why did you do it?"

It took Alastair a moment to conceive what he was referring to. He hastily covered it with his other hand, but Thomas saw it. "I - didn't mean to."

Thomas watched the cut in awe as if it was imaginary. However, when he grazed the skin, Alastair winced. 

Thomas wasn't sure how to counter this. Their fight. What just happened. Alastair didn't either. Or did he wish to pretend none of this happened? That he -both of them- weren't hurt?

This thought wasn't toleratable to Thomas.

And that's why, after he took his stele out of his dresser and was applying an iratze on Alastair's forearm, that he asked, "I want to talk about what happened the day before yesterday."

He could feel Alastair stiffening, his muscles tensing. "I was upset," Alastair said cautiously. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, Tom."

"You shouldn't have," Thomas agreed. He was done with the iratze and put the stele aside. "But that's not why I'm distraught."

Alastair shot him a tumultuous look. Thomas took a deep breath before looking Alastair dead in the eye. "You were upset, but you wouldn't tell me why. You grumble about things relentlessly, but when you're truly shaken you don't share at all. It's not - just this argument. It's not just one thing. Those small moments you hesitate whether to tell me the truth. The times you don't." He inhaled, letting the cold air fill his lungs. He resisted looking away from Alastair's face, didn't let his eyes flutter around the room like they were trying to do. "Love is also built on trust and communication. If we don't have those, what is left?" He didn't need to hear Alastair's reply. "We talk, and we share, yet I cannot understand why you're so grumpy at times. I _need_ you to tell me."

"Can't one just be pissed off at the world?"

" _Alastair_."

"Many things can upset me," Alastair said. Thomas might have hallucinated it, but his voice was a bit shaky. "Do you want to hear them all?"

"Yes," Thomas answered immediately. His tone was sincere.

Alastair's hand reached to the other side of the bed, a nonverbal request. They still couldn't stop staring at each other. But not playfully, or lovingly, but earnestly.

Alastair, naked of his facade and any snide remarks. Alastair, whom he grew to know and rarely showed up to many else.

 _I do trust you. I care for you._ were the meaning behind Alastair's gaze. All Thomas wanted is to lean on and forget everything. But still - it was not his pride making him relucent. That was much deeper than that. 

He lingered there just for a moment too long, enough to make Alastair believe he declined the request, and his hand quirked in pain for a moment. His face became emotionless - and Thomas had feared he misleadingly deceived Alastair that he didn't want them after all. That he didn't want him.

In moments, he climbed on the bed. He coddled Alastair, silently and diligently. "Tell me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," Alastair retorted eventually. He rubbed his eyes and laid back on the bed board. Then after a moment. "Anything."

"I hate it when I see you suffer and I don't know why," Thomas whispered. "I want to help. More than anything. But you push me away and I am left to think it might be because of me, because-"

"No," Alastair said firmly, extending his hands to cup Thoams's. "You have never been anything but good to me. It's just-," he broke off.

Thomas searched his foggy eyes. "I don't blame you," he told him, "If it's hard for you. But trust me enough to tell me what bothers you, thus we could face it together." He collected his hands in his own, lifting them so he could kiss his knuckles. "I know I want to stand by your side whatever the cost." he was certain about that; No whirlwind to come could change it. "Will you let me?"

Instead of an answer, Alastair kissed him.

Thomas knew he was kind, forgiving, trusting. He knew Alastair was slow to trust, slow to reveal his true feelings, hiding behind sharp words to secure himself from being harmed by people close to him. He knew the world broke his heart - so viciously, and that he took the pieces that were left. It was undoubtedly hard. Alastair had changed so much, yet Thomas wanted to understand, to reassure Alastair they were in this together. 

"Hamsar-am," Alastair said when they pulled away. "I will try."

Thomas smiled at the endearment term. His heart was throbbing fast. "I was mad," he confessed, "because you refused to tell me what's wrong. You pretended. And I - I don't want facades, my love. I want the truth. I want _you_."

"I don't want to be weak around the people I love," Alastair whispered, and Thomas understood. To what extent did he fear that if he shows weakness, his friends and family would suffocate him again, shield him from the world as they did when he was younger? How much he feared at slightest of weakness shown, he would be smothered as Thomas had been when he was too small, too fragile?

But Alastair never did that. He supported him in his way, allowed him to be weak without acting as if Thomas was made of glass. "So not weak to everyone," He was astonished he found it in himself to laugh softly. "Each other will be enough. We can be valuable with one another."

Alastair stared at him for a long moment. Eventually, a faint smile appeared on his lips. "Okay."

"This is just another way of trust."

So Alastair told him. He told him about the rumors he heard from the London enclave about his family, the looks he had gotten. Of the words of people who were white while Alastair was brown. He didn't mind, much, but it drew attention to his family. And to Thomas. Respectable family and a kind heart seemingly weren't enough to make the rumors - and who spread them - silence. The opposite is correct - the fire burned even brighter, and its flame was like cutting knives. The people who matter didn't care about their agreement, and Alastair long stopped paying attention to rumors. But when it was about Thomas, he said, he had been furious. The stories unfolded, the truth shone through, and the more Alastair talked - not just about rumors, but on the way some of the people treated him, of the Cornwall's townhouse and its residents, the things his soul troubled about were finally out.

Thomas listened, understood, stroked Alastair's cheek when he seemed to start shaking again, but now out of relief instead of concealed agony. 

They sunk into a comfortable silence in the end. Up until Alastair inquired, "You were out for so long. Where were you?"

"At the institute," Thomas replied. The concept of coming back to his parents' townhouse, admitting the quarrel, rewinding it all in his head countless times while enduring Sophie and Gideon's worrying looks, was nothing he wished to do. "Or somewhere I could avoid anyone."

"And now?" he asked tentatively. "You come back?"

"I have no intentions to leave this bed even if Ariadne herself will come to pluck me off the sheets." He affirmed.

Alastair's smirk became genuine this time. "Ariadne was here today."

When Thomas said "I know" he got a quizzical look from Alastair so he supplied, "She found my whereabouts and made me go confront you. Not much subtly, may I add."

"Yes. This jinx made me open up the door and refused to leave until I told her what happened."

Thomas silently laughed. 

"I..suppose it was rather cathartic," Alastair said. It was dawn now, Thomas noted, and none of them found it in themselves to get up and eat supper. They just kept their bodies close, relishing their air of comfort.

"Indeed. I feel... better. Splendidly better than reading the same page over and over again in the Devil's tavern or pretending to care what waistcoat Matthew is taking to the impending party at Anna's flat." 

"You thought the place you and your band go to hide is the best place to hide from _them_?" Alastair asked.

"It seemed reasonable at the time," Thomas murmured. "Each of us has a kind of hideout, have we not?"

Where was Alastair's safe hideaway? At home, with a book in hand? At museums, drinking in art and beauty? Was it hiking in the streets of London by himself and enjoying the view and the whispers of nature?

"You," Alastair said. Thomas hadn't realized he voiced his question aloud. A tired, small smile played on Alastair's lips, yet his words were soft, plain and simple. Their eyes locked, and he could feel how genuine Alastair was. "You are my hideout."

****

Dictionary:

man nemidânam - I don't know

Eshgham - my love

Hamsar-am - my equal head, my better half


End file.
